


everybody learns from disaster

by andibeth82



Series: darling, i'm a nightmare [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Apparently getting beat-up a lot makes for a great friendship, Clint Barton & Matt Murdock Friendship, Companionable Snark, Deaf Clint Barton, Dumpster rooftop trashcan buddies, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 08:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3804232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three and a half weeks after Clint pulls Matt out of a dumpster and helps him patch up his injuries, he gets Matt to return the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	everybody learns from disaster

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my partner in crime **geckoholic** for beta and for making this better than it was in its original form. Fittingly, she's also to blame in making me think I should continue this 'verse of bros who find themselves in similar situations. I'm just gonna go ahead and dedicate this whole darn thing to you and you know why.
> 
> Again, loosely based in the Daredevil and Hawkeye universes (particularly the All-New Hawkeye series.)
> 
> (I guess this is a series now.)

Three and a half weeks after Clint pulls Matt out of a dumpster and helps him patch up his injuries, he gets Matt to return the favor.

“I’m blind,” Matt reminds him as he opens the door. “What makes you think I’m in any position to play nurse?”

“I don’t think that,” Clint says, and at this point he’s both congratulating himself on the fact that he can talk properly _and_ on the fact that he’s not throwing up on the floor. He’s got at least one cracked rib, he knows, can tell, and the pounding headache he can’t shake makes him assume he’s got a concussion as well. But he hasn’t lost his hearing aids, and he counts that as a damn miracle, all things considered.

“Sit down,” Matt says as he walks towards the bathroom. “You sound like shit.”

 _I look like shit_ , Clint wants to say, because he knows he does, but hey, he can afford to give the blind man the benefit of the doubt in this case. “I can clean myself,” he calls, stifling a cough that makes his chest hurt. “Just needed a place to go.” He adjusts his aids with one hand so that the pervasive echo in his eardrum stops.

“Dumpster?” Matt asks as he fumbles around in the next room, emerging with a basin of medical supplies. Clint forces down a laugh, knowing the situation will end badly – as in, more cracked ribs badly -- if he lets himself react the way his body is used to responding.

“I wish. No, this is plain old _Clint Barton is an idiot jumping off the roof when he didn’t have to_.”

“Ah.” Matt sits down beside him in the kitchen chair, and Clint reaches for the supplies. “So there _was_ no dumpster at the end of the line.” He grins. “Thought I heard someone up there earlier.”

“What gave it away?” Clint asks sarcastically, but he can’t really feel annoyed. The fact that both of them tended to run in the same circles more often than not is something that makes Clint feel strangely comforted. Kate aside, there aren’t many people who he feels understand what it meant to be innately human, and even Nat -- who wasn’t necessarily any kind of superhuman – could get off easy, considering her ability to make it out of situations barely scathed.

Matt chuckles. “I mean, there’s something to be said for heightened senses. Not everyone can shoot a bow the way you can.”

It’s a compliment, Clint knows, though it doesn’t stop him from making a face all the same.

“Glad I can keep myself under the radar, then,” he says tightly, breathing through the pain in his chest. He’s immediately thankful that Matt can’t see how much discomfort he’s in, though he’s quite sure his friend is in tune with the sounds he can’t stop himself from emitting.

“Maybe you should bring back the mask,” Matt says lightly, leaning back, and Clint snorts.

“Are you feeling smug because you haven’t had your shoulder stitched up in two days?”

Matt grins. “Yeah, maybe.” He pauses. “Look, if you wanna stay, I’m about to order in. Delivery from Two Bros if we can make the minimum for my credit card.”

“Pizza,” says Clint a little thoughtfully as his ribs scream. He wonders if he can even eat properly, though he also knows from experience that’s never stopped him before. Matt quirks an eyebrow.

“Cheese.”

“Extra.”

“Like, triple layers extra.”

“And peppers.”

 

***

 

In the end, it’s not really anything special, but that’s how pizza night starts, and after a few late-night drops-ins that involve stitching and blood and cursing, Clint will invite Matt up to the roof of his apartment. He’ll divide the slices easily while they lie on their backs and shoot quarters at a glass bottle, and, well, Matt’s surprisingly good with his aim for someone who can’t see. 

“Disability,” Matt says as he flicks a coin forward. It’s their version of truth or dare, and for the first time in his life, Clint doesn’t feel totally terrible talking about things that he normally hated bringing to the surface.

“Parents. Dad got drunk, hit me one too many times as a kid. Learned sign language at first with my brother.” He pauses, flicking his own quarter forward. “Your dad.”

“Murdered by Russian mobsters,” and the answer sounds so nonchalant Clint would wonder about Matt’s mental state if he didn’t just  _get it_. It’s the type of thing that if you had to deal with something terrible in your head, every goddamn day of your life, it wasn’t so much triggering as it was second nature.  “Religion.”

“Never really had one. I mean, we celebrated Christmas and all that, but god knows my parents weren’t ones to go to church and talk about their sins. And then in the circus, you basically believed in freak show people.” Clint pauses, noting the way Matt’s shoulders are twitching, as if something Clint’s said has struck him the wrong way. “What, are you gonna tell me you think I’m the devil or something because I didn’t go to church?”

“The devil doesn’t get his ass handed to him on a silver platter once a day,” Matt responds and Clint grins wryly, despite the fact that he knows Matt can’t see his expression. He hands over another beer instead, placing it near Matt’s hand until he grasps it sufficiently. 

“Neither does the angel. Face it, Murdock, we’re not deities.” He can feel the pain coursing through his bones as he says the words. “We’re just fucking  _mortal_.”

 

***

 

Roughly a month after Clint first gets patched up in Matt’s apartment, he’s back in the field, fighting a rather _annoying_ faction of an angry Russian mob with Kate. Kate herself is back from California, along with his dog (and truly, Clint’s _glad_ about that, despite the fact he thinks he’ll forever be pissed that she couldn’t be bothered to bring him In-N-Out.) He’s barely healed, the concussion is gone, his rib is still taped, but damned if he’s going to let something like a _cracked rib_ stop him from doing his job.

He sees the flash of what looks like a hand out of the corner of his eye before he can comprehend what it means, and then Matt is beside him, neatly rolling out of the way just as Clint shouts that he should move.

“Sorry ‘bout that! Didn’t mean to interrupt your avenging!” Matt calls as he picks himself up, feeling around his face and adjusting the blindfold over his eyes. Clint unleashes an arrow into one of the mobster’s shoulders.

“Next time, try a different roof, Murdock.”

“Hey, it’s a free city!” Matt ducks again as Clint twists his body, shooting at an attacker that’s come from behind.

“Well, as long as it’s a free city, you wanna come to a barbeque? Next week, maybe around noon?” And what the hell, the man has pretty much seen Clint naked at this point, so he figures he can extend the invitation for some damn hot dogs.

Besides, he _had_ promised.

Matt looks over and shrugs. “Can I bring a guest?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, grabbing another arrow from his quiver without really thinking about it. “Course you can.”

“Cool,” and then Matt’s gone, running across the rooftop, slinging down the fire escape until he disappears into the rapidly approaching night.

“Hey, Hawkeye!” Kate’s screaming across the roof and Clint at that moment thanks god his aids are finally fixed. “I’m starving! After this, let’s go get tacos!”

 

***

 

So the thing is, Clint doesn’t really expect Matt to show up and hang out. Mostly because he figures that Matt has better things to do when he’s not, well, avenging the whole of Hell’s Kitchen.

Because if _Clint_ had a day off, he knows that he would spend it sitting on his couch, maybe popping a few beers in the solitude of his living room with _Dog Cops_ on television and his actual dog curled up at his feet, sending stupid texts to half his phone book. Not being social at a rooftop party with people he barely knew.

But also, the thing is, Clint’s never really had friends. He counts his apartment neighbors as acquaintances (acquaintances whose asses he cared about saving, that is). Natasha and Bobbi are more like confidants, something beyond a normal label, something that Clint has tried and failed to explain to people outside his circle. And Kate, well…Clint’s not sure what she is sometimes, although she’s probably the closest thing to a real friend that he’s got, and not just because she’s the only woman in their group he hasn’t slept with.

But aside from “friends” like Tony Stark and Captain America and his brother, yeah, Clint's pretty solitary in the bro department. So he’s honestly surprised when Matt follows through on his invite and shows up looking more dapper than Clint would expect. He’s got a case of beer in one hand, and trailing behind him is an attractive woman of Amazonian height, who is helping him walk across the roof with his cane.

“Hey, you made it,” Clint says, catching the woman’s eye and waving her over to the grill. He takes a moment to wipe a grease-stained hand on his jeans.

“Claire Temple. I assume you’re his new nurse?” The woman asks flatly, but with a hint of amusement, and Clint smiles.

“Yeah, but you can call me Clint Barton. Or Hawkeye. Hawkguy? Either of those work.” He pauses, raising an arm to scratch his head. “You’re the girl who pulled him out of the dumpster, right?”

“The first time,” Matt and Claire both respond, and their voices are scarily in sync, the kind of practiced response that makes Clint realize they’ve probably spent enough time together to know how to answer that question. He knows Kate wouldn’t bother to back him up if it was him on the other end of the question; truth be told sometimes Clint’s pretty sure she basically lives to see him make a fool out of himself.

“Nice place,” Claire says, looking around, before her gaze settles back on Clint. “You do this often?”

“The parties?” Clint shrugs. “Summertime, yeah, every now and again. When we can get a break. Or when I’m not, like, doing something important.”

“Hey, Claire. Stop making friends and grab a beer.” Matt swings the six-pack in her direction, and Claire rolls her eyes while she grabs the carton from his hand.

“He thinks he’s hysterical because he can’t see anything,” she says with a small sigh, reaching for a bottle opener, as another voice filters into the conversation.

“I guess they really are meant to be,” and Kate’s standing next to Clint before he can fully comprehend her arrival, grinning as she takes a sip of her own beer. She gestures in his direction. “He just laughs at himself, though, when he can’t hear his own bad jokes.”

“Aw, come on,” Clint mutters, turning around and poking at a charred hot dog. Kate offers a hand in Claire’s direction.

“Kate Bishop. I’m the one that patches _him_ up.”

“Great,” Clint says bitterly. “And where the hell did you even come from? I thought you were picking up soda.”

“It doesn’t take five years to pick up soda, dumbass,” Kate says with a patented eye roll. “Anyway, want me to introduce your new friends to the gang?”

He doesn’t, really – he doesn’t exactly trust Kate that won’t pepper her kindness with embarrassing stories of his life, but he figures at this point, nothing can be worse than the fact that he’s ended up in a dumpster with the same man who could also judge him for not being able to untangle Christmas lights.

Kate turns on her heel before he can respond, motioning for Claire, who helps lead Matt around the slightly crowded rooftop. Clint turns another hot dog over as he turns his attention back to the grill, wondering if he can get through the next pizza night without being asked about his sleeping arrangements.

“Where’s the party?”

Clint whirls around in surprise for the second time in less than ten minutes, almost dropping the tongs in surprise. “Jesus _Christ_ , Nat.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow from behind a pair of dark shades. “If you’re going to ask me how I got here, I would hope you know better.”

“More like what are you doing here,” Clint says pointedly, taking her in. She’s dressed more casually than he’s used to, capri pants and sandals and an off the shoulder tee-shirt that he knows, should it dip a little further, would reveal the recent nasty scar she’d obtained during her last mission. Natasha flicks her gaze towards the food.

“I was in the neighborhood dropping stuff off and happened to run into Bishop at the store. She said you were having some sort of party that I didn’t get invited to.” Natasha grins a little slyly. “Anyway, I can’t stay, but I figured as long as I was here, I’d see if I could pick up my things.”

“Yeah, yeah.” And Clint’s almost forgotten about that at this point because, well, it’s been about three weeks since Natasha showed up at his door in clothes caked with blood and dirt, looking for a place to stay that wasn’t going to be compromised by people trying to ruin her life. He closes the lid on the grill and reaches into his pocket.

“Here, take my keys and let yourself in. Your jeans and stuff are all washed and they’re in the purple bag by my bed. I even got you a new pair of socks, the five-in-a-pack kind from Target that you like so much. The ones you were wearing when you showed up kind of fell apart in the dryer.”

Natasha smiles as she meets his outstretched hand. “I should be surprised you even bothered to clean them.”

Clint snorts. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not _that_ much of a slob. I do go to the laundromat on occasion. And I know what kind of socks you wear.”

“So I’ve heard,” Natasha says with a small smile. She steps forward and pecks him gently on the cheek. “Lucky inside?”

“Yeah, you can let him out if you want,” and the words are barely out of his mouth before he hears Claire’s voice again, this time a little confused.

“Who are you?”

He’s missed Kate coming back around, not that the roof is all that big to begin with, and Natasha draws herself up as Matt and Claire come to a stop next to the grill.

“Natasha,” Natasha says slowly, tilting her head, and Clint notices she doesn’t offer anything else. Not that anyone would be able to tell who she was outside of her extremely casual cover, he knows. She extends a hand.

“And you are?”

“Claire. And this is Matt. Murdock.” She pauses, looking at Clint, then over at Kate and back at Natasha. “You’re a friend?”

Natasha’s lips twitch. “Kind of,” she says lightly, dangling the keys in her hand. “I mostly help patch him up.”

Clint’s in the middle of spearing a hot dog and he thinks, at this moment, life could not get more awkward if it tried. He almost _wishes_ for a dumpster. Or for his aids to fall out. At least Matt is blind and can’t see the red creeping into his face, though he knows he’s not that lucky where his other company is concerned.

“I thought that was you,” Claire says, swiveling her gaze. She turns to Clint, her eyes skeptical. “You have _two_ women who take care of you?”

“Technically three,” Kate breaks in as Natasha starts off towards the door that leads back downstairs. “Bobbi, his ex-wife? She helps out sometimes too.”

“Three women that patch you up, one of whom you’ve slept with?”

“Two,” Kate says, as soon as Natasha is out of earshot and has left a safe distance between them. “And spoiler alert, it’s _not_ me.”

Clint really wishes once again that sinking through the roof was an option, but then Matt wants another hot dog and he’s talking about the next time Clint’s going to fall into his apartment for pizza night, and Clint lets him babble, and tries to not to think about the whole unease of the situation.

He suspects Matt’s done it before, this whole “smooth talking to get your mind off the most terrible things” schtik, and he’s surprised to find that mostly, it works.

 

***

 

“You really slept with two of them?” Matt’s icing his ankle, and Clint’s only in marginally better shape, mostly exhausted but too keyed up to fall asleep.

“Yes,” Clint says with a sigh. “Sorry, by the way. I know that…” He trails off, remembering their earlier conversations. “I mean, just, the whole religious thing? Not so much of a saint there.”

Matt barks out a laugh and Clint immediately feels his stomach tighten until his friend holds up his hand. “No, no, it’s...look, it’s fine. Trust me, I get it. Anyway, it’s nice having someone who understands my sorry life so well.”

“Claire?” Clint asks curiously, and Matt moves his mouth back and forth, shifting on the couch.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says slowly. “It takes awhile for me to want to open up to someone, especially with a life like this. She’s nice, and she’s been good to me, but…I don’t want to drag her into this world. It’s not her fight, you know?”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees quietly. “I know.” He lets himself fall into silence, which is broken by Matt’s voice again after another few moments.

“So when’s your next avenging night?”

 

***

 

His next avenging night, it so happens, is next week, and it’s a stake-out that Kate’s dragged him on while he tries to get out of it because, truth be told, stake-outs are just downright _boring._ Kate vetoes his refusals rather quickly by reminding him that if he wants to do anything useful in the field that doesn’t involve him getting hurt, his best bet right now is sitting in a car and keeping still.

Why he brings Matt along, he has no idea, whether it’s the company thing or the back-up thing, in that he figures if something bad really _does_ happen, three would be better than two. Not that Kate couldn’t take care of herself, but Clint’s always felt better having more people around when it came to uncertain situations.

“First stake-out?” Kate asks as she passes a bag of chips behind her, waiting until Matt’s found and grabbed the bag to let go.

“Nah,” Matt says in between shoving chips in his mouth. “Been on a few. But this is the first time my company’s been so great.”

“See, he likes us,” Kate says, turning her gaze back to the windshield. “We’re fun.”

Clint snorts. “ _Or_ it’s because together we make a pretty decent team.”

“Or that,” Matt agrees, and Clint can hear the amusement in his voice as they both settle back in their seats, while Kate crunches on another handful of snack food.

“I’d say the blind leading the blind, but –” Clint stops himself as Kate turns to glare.

“You’re an _ass_ , Barton.”

Clint opens his mouth to object, because he really wasn’t planning to go the insulting route, but before he can respond, a loud crack shatters the silence (and, he’s pretty sure judging from the ringing in his head, his eardrums.) He barely has time to comprehend what might or might not have happened before Kate is shoving him down by the back of his neck, and she slams his forehead hard into the glove compartment, so much so that he can almost feel the pressure of the bruise starting to form.

“ _What the hell_?” He’s yelling, but he’s not sure if he’s yelling more at Kate or more at the possible scenario, the specifics of which he’s still fuzzy on.

“Ambush,” says a voice somewhere from the back seat, though it’s strained and quiet. Clint manages to turn and catches the dripping of what he knows has to be blood from the backseat, and _shit_ , Matt’s been shot, through the window, maybe? Clint glances at the cracked glass and winces because _crap_ , it had been around two weeks, and they were both doing _so well_.

Well, Clint was definitely going to have another bruise to rival three still healing ones, so he could at least be good company.

“Since when do you get ambushed on a _stake-out_?”

“In New York City? Since right now,” Kate says, reaching for the door handle. “Stay here.”

“And leave you alone out there?” Clint asks, reaching for his own door. Kate’s on the other side of the car in a second, slamming the door closed, and he yelps as the motion forces his hand away from the lock.

“Stay with Murdock, I don’t need both of you dying on me,” she says curtly, yelling through the window, before taking off down the street. Clint groans and shifts, holding his breath in anticipation of another shot but there’s nothing, and he doesn’t know if that’s because Kate’s being trailed, or if it really was just a random gangster looking for a fun night out.

“Hey, you got time to patch me up?” Matt asks with a grimace. “Kind of sucks to be bleeding out when you can’t see. I really hate this part of the deal.”

“Gimme a moment,” Clint mutters, opening the glove compartment and rummaging through it. There are a few napkins, though he knows that’s not going to do much. Thankfully, though, the car that they’ve borrowed from S.H.I.E.L.D. has a decent amount of what looks to Clint like clean rags, and he gathers as much of them as he can before twisting around again, leaning over the seat.

“Here,” he says, putting a cloth against the wound from the bullet that’s torn through Matt’s side. He moves Matt’s hand. “Just hold that there, okay? Gonna call for help.”

“Don’t call for help,” says Kate as the door to the driver’s side suddenly clicks open. “We’re not going to a hospital.”

“What _happened_?” Clint presses, keeping one eye on Matt’s prone form as Kate slams her foot on the gas pedal. Her hair is disheveled, she’s out of breath, and there are large mud stains on her pants.

“Those Russian mobsters we’ve been chasing? Apparently they have something on us. I don’t know if it’s you, or your building or someone else you run around with, but they’re not our biggest fans. And we can’t go to a hospital, because they’ll know he needs one, and they’ll be looking.”

“So where do you propose we go instead?” Clint asks over the roar of the engine. He knows he has next to nothing at his house to deal with something like a gunshot wound, and he doubts they can hold off until he could call Natasha for back up in that regard.

“Claire’s,” comes a ragged voice from the backseat. “I can give directions. Just bring me to Claire’s.”

 

***

 

And so that’s how Clint finds himself in Claire’s apartment with her bleeding (kind-of) partner, this time without beer or hot dogs, half wondering if she wants to help with the bruise on his forehead when she’s done with her nurse duties.

“You’re lucky I’m here,” she says before she helps them inside, immediately turning her attention to Matt as she situates him on the couch. Clint can see the worry shadowing her face. “What happened, exactly?”

“Attack. During a stake-out,” Kate says, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear now that her hands are free. She leaves a trail of blood smeared across her temple and Clint thinks that if he wasn’t so stressed out right now, he’d find it almost endearing, in the way only someone with their lifestyle could.

“You guys and your superhero stuff,” Claire mutters, hurrying towards the bedroom. “How long ago was he shot?”

“Fifteen…maybe twenty…hey Claire, got another one for you to add to the board,” Matt manages weakly as Clint hangs back, watching Claire peel away the make-shift bandage Clint had initially put together with the rags. In between soothing words that Clint feels like he has no right to hear, and moans of pain that sound far too recognizable, he manages to find a space in the corner of the room, while Kate offers a warm washcloth for his head.

“Please tell me I’m not this much of a snarky bastard when I’m hurt.”

Kate smiles wryly, bumping his shoulder. “Well, you’d have to ask Natasha about that one. I’ve heard some colorful stories about Albania.”

“Ugh.” Clint squints as a fresh wave of pain courses through his head. “Am I allowed to sleep? Am I going to die?”

“Neither,” says Claire, and Clint looks up as she bends down in front of them. She runs her fingers gently over Clint’s forehead. “You have a serious bump on the head, not a concussion. But if you want to sleep, you can take my bed. If you want.”

“Seriously?” Clint asks, more than a little surprised. “I mean, we basically just met. And I’m not –”

“Yes, you are,” Claire interrupts. “I know your type…he tries to do this to me all the time, play the martyr card, tell me I need to be the one who’s comfortable when he’s in worse shape. I have a cot I can bring out here, and besides, I need to be up to make sure he’s okay, anyway.” She throws a glance back towards the couch, where Clint realizes there’s been silence for longer than he might be comfortable with. “As for your friend –”

“We can sleep in the same bed,” Kate interjects, glancing at Clint. “We’re not _children_.”

Claire nods slowly, moving her gaze back and forth before rocking up on her feet.

“You and Matt really are two of a kind. I don’t know how you do it.”

“He doesn’t,” Kate responds, getting up. “Why do you think he’s got a standing invitation to the emergency room once a week?”

“Because he’s a superhero?” Claire asks a little sadly, and Clint detects something wistful hiding in her voice. “Anyway, feel free to make yourselves comfortable. I’m going to stay out here for a little bit.”

Clint lets Kate pull him to his feet and shuffles off towards the bedroom, fighting the urge to glance back at Claire, who has moved back to the couch and is leaning over Matt’s body, her face close to his chest.

 

***

 

He’s too tired to care about the fact that sleeping with Kate (a normal thing) will also mean sleeping with her half naked (not a normal thing), because he’s opted to keep his clothes on, but Claire insists on trying to at least wash some of the stains from the night’s escapades. And it’s not like Clint can’t be a gentleman, in any case.

“I could really use a shower,” Kate grumbles as she climbs over the covers, settling onto the pillow with a small sigh. “I miss showers.”

“Tomorrow,” Clint mutters. “We’ll be home tomorrow, and you can take all the hot showers you want, Katie.”

Kate smiles slowly, half her mouth pulling upwards in a small grin.

“Why do you like that guy?” She asks after a moment. “I mean, I’ve never known you to have guy friends at all. Well, I’ve never known you to have any friends, period.”

Clint makes a face. “You’re really great at making me feel good, you know that?”

Kate smiles wider in the dark. “I’m serious. I haven’t seen you this in tune with anyone since Natasha.”

Clint chuckles quietly. “I don’t know,” he admits, turning over, staring at the door that he knows leads to the space that Matt and Claire are currently occupying. “I just get him, I guess. It’s hard to be a superhero in this damn city. It’s hard to do it while being human. It’s even harder to do it when you’ve got a disability.”

Kate hums in the dark, shifting slightly.

“You do a pretty good job of it, you know.”

“What, being human?” Clint closes his eyes as his head starts to pound again, and Kate sighs, as if she can’t believe he’s being so obtuse that he’s missing the point.

“No. Avenging. Superhero-ing. Whatever it is that we – you – do that pays the bills.” She turns over fully, and the mattress creaks under her weight. “You’re good. So is he. You’re _both_ good.”

And that’s what Clint finds himself thinking as he finally lets himself slip into unconsciousness, lulled into sleep by the rush of street noise from the open window.

_You’re both good._

Well, it could be enough.


End file.
